


The Oasis

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black & Blue tag: Going through a hard patch, the partners gratefully indulge in a little oasis of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oasis

Written: 2004

First published in "Venice Place Times 4" (2004)

 

_I shouldn’t be here_.

Starsky set his jaw and took another determined bite of his cold pizza. Not that he was tasting it, but he had to eat...and pretend everything was okay. That he shouldn’t be over at Hutch’s, looking after his convalescing partner. 

It wasn’t right. You didn’t just drop someone fresh out of the hospital with a gunshot wound off at their house with a “see you later!” A year ago when that nut, Diana, had stabbed Hutch, Starsky had moved in with his partner for several days, both for practical help and for the intangible: riding out the inevitable nightmares, keeping him company, making sure he didn’t overdo it. Comforting. That was what partners did. Or so Starsky had thought.  

But now, a week after a teen with a gun had shot Hutch during a routine call, he was back at his home, probably not eating or sleeping right, struggling to do everything one-handed, facing the memories alone, while Starsky was....

Eating cardboard. He threw the pizza onto the plate with disgust. He was alone now, anyway; why bother pretending?

It would have done no good pretending a year before. Hutch would have seen through every act, every pretense, even when Starsky was fooling himself. And he’d never have let Starsky get away with it, badgering and coaxing until everything was out in the open and dealt with. Another thing Starsky had always assumed partners did. 

But little by little, things had changed over that last year. Or maybe even earlier and he hadn’t noticed, Starsky didn’t know. There hadn’t been any major catalyst, any one great disillusionment, but slowly the gush of joy that came from working together narrowed to a trickle, the strength they drew from one another became a drain, the jabs at each other had grown teeth while the silence between them grew empty. Hutch was burning out on the job, but that wasn’t the whole problem, and Starsky wasn’t even sure anymore it wasn’t just a symptom. 

Not that they hadn’t tried to fix it. When Hutch had been so sick from the botulism, and the pain and fear were still raw, Starsky had tried his best to confront and broach the chasm between them. Hutch had done the same after Starsky’s anguish over shooting Emily Harrison, and then again after Starsky was nearly killed by a witness he’d been protecting. And what had Hutch gotten for his pains? A fall down Starsky’s steps, courtesy of his trustworthy partner. No wonder he’d turned down Starsky’s offer of help that afternoon. 

Neither of them seemed able to penetrate the barrier between them, and Starsky was starting to fear it would take a catastrophe to topple it...or perhaps to cement it in place for good. And so they’d both turned a blind eye to the growing distance between them, listening only to what was being said instead of the unspoken.

Pretending not to hear the despair. 

Starsky cringed at the thought, deep discouragement spearing through him at the thought of how far they’d fallen. 

A knock sounded at the door.

Starsky started, frowned. It was...well, okay, only a little past nine, but that was still late for visiting. And, he realized with a start, it was pouring rain outside. When had that started? He’d been too wrapped in the gloom of his thoughts to notice. 

Swallowing a sigh, Starsky shoved the pizza away and stood. Did it matter? The most important relationship in his life was falling apart around him, and he was worried about the weather. Best to get rid of whoever it was at the door as soon as possible and turn the TV on so he could stop thinking for a while. Starsky shuffled to the front door, unlocking the deadbolt and turning the knob. Maybe he would even screw up his courage to risk rejection yet again and call—

“Hutch?” he said, utterly bewildered at the sight of the man standing on his porch.

A drowned rat would have looked less miserable. The rain had plastered Hutch’s hair and clothes to his skin and was sending painful shivers through his still-healing body. His sling was also sodden, and he clutched it to him with his good hand as if to relieve some of its weight, his shoulder hunched against the hurting. Hutch’s cheeks were flushed with the low-grade fever he’d had that afternoon from lingering inflammation, doubtless helped along by the cold November rain. And his eyes....

Starsky swallowed. “What’re you doin’ out there?” he chided gently. 

Hutch squinted up at the rain, then at Starsky’s house as if he had never seen it before. He opened his mouth to answer, shut it, and finally shrugged with his good shoulder, wincing even at that. 

“You’re gonna drown out there—come in,” Starsky groused. Heart sinking again; when had he ever needed to invite Hutch in? Usually he couldn’t keep the man out. 

Hutch finally moved, watching his feet as they moved slowly, heavily, one after the other, as if it took concentration and a great deal of energy to lift them. 

Starsky made a face, glancing past him out into the street. There sat the LTD, parked crookedly at the curb. He turned back to Hutch, thunderous. “You _drove_ here?”

Hutch blinked at him, a defiant expression forming under the fatigue and embarrassment. No doubt it would have been an impassioned retort if he’d had the strength to deliver it, Starsky thought with a moment of sober amusement. But maybe it was better this way. He found himself listening in another fashion instead, picking up the subtle notes their misery seemed to drown out of late. And it was telling him more candidly what Hutch needed than his partner could or would have. Or possibly even knew to. 

And abruptly, the past months and all their pain didn’t matter. Maybe it wouldn’t last beyond that night, but for the moment all the baggage was gone, just Hutch and him there, and his partner needed him. Starsky wasn’t about to refuse that gift. 

“You’re drippin’ on my rug,” he said softly, and wrapped an arm around Hutch’s waist, half-afraid the man might fold right there in the living room if he had to stand on his own power much longer. Starsky nudged him toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you out of the wet stuff and warmed up, huh?”

He doubted Hutch could have refused if he wanted to. It didn’t take long to recognize as they half-walked, half-lurched across the room that Hutch’s trembling came at least as much from exhaustion and weakness as from the cold, and Starsky could feel the effort it took to stay upright and moving. At least Starsky could feel his partner starting to lean on him as they walked, and took that as a good sign. Hutch didn’t lean too much anymore. 

And as Starsky’s own clothes soaked through from the contact, another realization struck. Hutch was drenched, far more so than he should have been from a walk up to the front door. It meant either he was even weaker than Starsky thought, taking a long time to cross those few steps...or he’d stood out in the rain for some time, undecided, before knocking. Unsure of his welcome, or not wanting to ask? 

Starsky silently winced. 

They passed the bathroom, and Starsky swiftly considered, then discarded the idea of a hot shower to warm Hutch up. Even if he could have stood through it, his stitches didn’t really need more soaking and his slinged arm would be an issue. It wasn’t as if Hutch were hypothermic, just cold and wet. All he needed was a drying off and warming up a little. And maybe a little caring.

In the bedroom, Starsky turned them toward the hamper that sat in one corner, and eased Hutch down on its wicker top. No sense getting the bed wet, too. He made sure Hutch wouldn’t fall on his face unsupported, then dashed back out to the hall closet for some fresh towels, and then into his closet for the flannel shirt he’d come across earlier that week, a remnant of when Hutch regularly spent the night. Not exactly sleepwear, but it would be warm and easy to maneuver around the hurt arm. No jeans, but he dug out a pair of his Academy sweats—they’d be a little short, but oh, well. And, lastly, back to the closet for his old sling from when he’d been shot in the shoulder, not far from where Hutch had been hit a week before. His partner had been all outrage and tenderness then after Starsky’s shooting. What had changed? 

Starsky dumped the collected stuff in a pile on the floor beside the hamper, then gently brushed away the cold, stiff fingers fumbling with the shirt buttons, and tackled them himself. And glanced up at Hutch’s face as he did. 

Nothing. Nothing had changed. It was those same eyes looking back at him, sheepish and a little awkward but grateful. Needing and giving at the same time. Trusting.

Loving. 

Starsky shook his head, pausing only a moment to briefly cup one stubbled, cold cheek. “You shoulda called me,” he said softly. 

It wasn’t met with a denial, only the increasingly familiar look of helplessness. The same helplessness Starsky had felt to share his pain with Hutch over Emily’s blindness. The feelings were still there, somehow they’d just gotten so much harder to share. 

The shirt unbuttoned, Starsky eased the sling off next, waiting each time Hutch’s breathing quickened or his face tightened until he relaxed again. The shirt came off next, and Starsky toweled him off, careful around the bandages. He’d forgotten about that, and he left a towel draped around Hutch’s shoulders as he got his own kit from the bathroom. 

The stitches were red and warm and slightly swollen. Starsky cringed at the sight of them, glimpsing in Hutch’s drawn face how much they hurt, too, but the doctor had said the antibiotics would make it better in a few days and there was nothing else to be done in the meantime. Reluctantly, Starsky just applied a fresh bandage, then slowly pulled on the flannel shirt. He was even more gentle with the sling, and still Hutch was swaying as he finished. 

“Just a few more things, then you can rest,” he soothed. He probably should have started with the pants when Hutch still had more strength, but too late for that now. He coaxed his friend to his feet, straining to hold most of Hutch’s weight as they struggled to get wet clothing off, toweled off, and then dry clothing on. They were both tired by the time he maneuvered Hutch’s sagging weight onto the edge of the bed. He’d left Hutch there, wobbling, while fetching a glass of water and some Tylenol from the bathroom, and steadied him with one hand while Hutch swallowed both. 

Starsky took a deep breath. The worst was over now, and he found himself talking some of the tension away as he worked on the wet blond hair with a towel. “I’ll fix you some hot chocolate in a minute—don’t have any orange juice, sorry. You should probably have somethin’ hot, anyway. Doc said no coffee while you’re on the stuff he gave you. Do I even wanna know how you drove over here when you’re on about five different pills and aren’t supposed to be doing anything more strenuous than goin’ to the john? Probably not. And if you left a string of pile-ups from here to Venice, I don’t know a thing, got that?”

They weren’t dry, but at least the blond strands were no longer dripping water down Hutch’s back, just sticking up in damp tufts on his head. 

Starsky looked him over critically, not missing the washes of exhaustion that passed over Hutch’s face. “Well, you look like a pineapple, but I think you’ll live.” He leaned down to lift Hutch’s feet and swing them up on the bed. 

And was stopped by a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist. 

Starsky stared at the hand for a moment, then up at Hutch. At the conflict that had driven the sleepiness from his face. 

Starsky finally sighed and let go. After a moment of reconsideration, he reached behind him to pull close the chair that stood a few feet away. He sat in it, eye-to-eye now with his partner. 

“You came here, remember? What’d you expect me to do, Hutch, warm ya up and then send you back out there?”

That familiar weary frown gathered between the blond eyebrows. 

Starsky swallowed. “Look, I know there’s something goin’ on between us right now that neither of us wants, and sooner or later we’re gonna have to work it out. But not tonight. You’re beat, you’re hurtin’, and like it or not, something in you brought you here. Something I’m glad for. So don’t fight it, huh?”

The hand hadn’t left his wrist, bruising with the strength of its grip. Hutch was beyond exhaustion but couldn’t let it go, the same puzzle and fears Starsky had been trying to sort out before his arrival passing one after the other across Hutch’s worn face. He’d never been one to give up easily. 

Or to ask for help, usually burying his need deeply, especially those days. Yet there he’d appeared on Starsky’s doorstep for no other reason than because he’d been drawn to his partner. Because they still healed better together. 

If that wasn’t an answer to what he’d feared, Starsky didn’t know what was. 

He smiled gently. “Hutch, you _came_. That’s all that matters right now. Whatever else is broken, that isn’t. We can fix the rest, I promise.” 

Hutch stared at him a moment longer, eyes dilated, fuzzy. Starting to feel the effects of the pain pills and his crashing fatigue, but trying to work through Starsky’s words nonetheless. 

Enough of this. Starsky slipped loose of Hutch’s grasp, leaned forward, and pulled him into a careful hug.

There was a long minute in which startlement gave way to an instinctual pulling away, and Starsky could feel Hutch’s muscles bunch in gathering protest. He was ready to let go the moment his partner started fighting him, not wanting to hurt him any further. 

And then the lean body slowly relaxed. Except for the one arm that curved around to his back and bunched a handful of Starsky’s shirt in one fist.  

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re gonna make it through this, buddy. I haven’t put up with ya this long to lose ya now.” 

There was a hitch in Hutch’s breathing that Starsky didn’t even try to translate, and then they just sat and clung. 

When Hutch finally started to grow heavy, falling asleep where he sat, Starsky eased him down on the bed, lifting his feet up. He snapped open the blanket that lay folded at the end of the bed and laid it over his partner, then went and got another from the hall closet for a second layer. Hutch watched him through heavy-lidded eyes until he was done and leaning over him in the bed. 

“I’ll be right out there if you need anything, just call.” 

Hutch’s eyes inched shut. 

Starsky stood for a moment, then snuck toward the door. Just as he reached it, there was barely a murmur, but in the quiet room he heard it clearly. 

“Starsk….” 

He turned, but Hutch was already asleep. A parting thought, maybe, or a recognition he was safe there?

Starsky soberly watched him sleep. He couldn’t shake the feeling things would get worse before they’d get better, that it would take some critical trial to push them to their limits and finally, maybe snap things back to the way they were. But at least there were these little oases to remind them of what they still had, to refresh the strength needed to keep going and give them hope they could get back what they’d once had.

Starsky just hoped it would be sooner rather than later, because in the meantime, this _hurt_. 

“I’ll be right here, Hutch,” he whispered again, and crept quietly out of the room. 

~~The End~~


End file.
